


musubime

by aischrolatry



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi's Squeaky Kitchen Chair, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bokuto's Stupid Cowboy-Patterned Boxers, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:12:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aischrolatry/pseuds/aischrolatry
Summary: Bokuto shifts his weight from one foot to another when they’re in line for bread, or he bobs one knee up and down when Coach is talking, or he taps a foot when they’re waiting for the bus, or he rolls around in his futon when the team shares a room at the inn.And Akaashi doesn’t mind, not really. But he wonders about what could make him stop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i have never written bokuaka, and i dont know why i decided this should be my first foray into the pairing. especially because akaashi is so hard to write?? lmao

“Akaashi- _san_ ,” Bokuto says, drawing out the last syllable like a brat would. His head cocks to the side as he fidgets in the chair, and there’s a squeaky noise. Then another, and another; a sequence of hinges scratching against old screws. Akaashi gives Bokuto a meaningful look, and the squeaking stops.

“We’ve gone over this, Bokuto-san,” he says curtly, and goes back to his biology handbook.

“Have we? I don’t—I don’t recall such a thing ever happening, Akaashi,” Bokuto replies, and if he sounds wheezy it’s because of the ropes pressing into his chest. Nice ropes, too – nylon, silky and sturdy, and expensive enough that Akaashi had to save his allowance for a full month. Bokuto probably doesn’t appreciate them as much as Akaashi does, but that’s fine. “D’you wanna just—“

Akaashi turns on his chair and sets his handbook down on his desk, reaching for a mechanical pencil. He clicks the end twice, as he always does, and begins underlining the parts his teacher has been hinting about for a week. Behind him, Bokuto sniffles loudly, and the chair squeaks.

“Do you want to know why I picked that chair in particular, Bokuto-san?” he asks, skimming over diagrams.

“Huh?” Akaashi isn’t looking, but he can still see Bokuto’s head shooting up, his eyes darting to meet Akaashi’s moving shoulders. He frowns for a split, confused second, and then nods quickly. “Er, yeah, sure! Why’d you, uh, why’d you pick the chair?”

“It’s the noisiest chair in my kitchen,” Akaashi says, and turns both a page and his face away. “Okaa-san never uses it, unless we have guests over. We’ve tried oiling the hinges once or twice, but it didn’t work. As you might be able to tell.”

Bokuto is probably blinking, now, jaw slack with confusion and eyebrows scrunched up together. It’s a dumb look – Akaashi might enjoy it, but he won’t go as far as to say it’s an attractive expression – and he almost turns to see it. Almost lets his arm rest over the back of his office chair as he looks Bokuto up and down. Almost smirks at him, fingers sliding across the smooth plastic of his mechanical pencil.

He doesn’t. Instead, Akaashi writes down a few keywords, eyes on the handbook.

“So what, Akaashi? Wait, is – is this a way of telling me I’m an unwanted guest!?”

“Don’t be so rash, Bokuto-san. I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself.”

Bokuto huffs, which means he’s pouting again. Akaashi once more resists the urge to look, but his homework is hardly as alluring as the sight of his captain. He’s been half-hard since the first coil of rope wrapped around Bokuto’s limbs, and when Akaashi _wants_ , he usually makes exceptions. But this is an exception in itself, and Bokuto has to learn. Which means Akaashi has to endure – so he does.

“Okay, so, you’ve already told me the rope was ‘cause I’m always fidgeting,” Bokuto says, and likely rests the back of his head against the back of the chair, because there’s another screech of metal. “I still think it’s ‘cause you’re a perv with control issues, but—“

“ _Bokuto-san_ ,” Akaashi cuts in, feeling the back of his neck growing warm. His fingers tighten around the mechanical pencil and he hates that he’s embarrassed, but he still can’t help it.

“Aw, Akaashi,” his captain says in a sickeningly sweet tone, “it’s okay, I still love you!”

The warmth spreads from Akaashi’s neck to his face and the lead breaks against the paper, spraying Akaashi’s meticulous handwriting with specks of graphite. Bokuto must hear it, because the chair squeaks and he hurriedly adds:

“No wait, I know! I do! Is it so you know whenever I move? It is, isn’t it? ‘Cause that’s great thinking, Akaashi, honestly, I wouldn’t put it past you to—“

“Yes,” Akaashi says coolly, eyes closed and heat thankfully dissipating, “that’s quite right. Congratulations.”

And at this the chair moans again, metal against metal, and Akaashi turns on his own – padded and modern and silent – to see Bokuto’s grin lighting up the room. It’s the only thing he has on, apart from the red rope and his stupid cowboy patterned boxers.

“Hey, hey, do I look good?” Bokuto asks, smirking widely. The pink in his ears betrays the confidence he displays so brazenly, but Akaashi chooses to tease him another time. It’s important to make him feel needed when he asks, sometimes. This is one of those times.

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and gets up from his chair. Bokuto’s squeaks as he straightens in anticipation, eyes darting down to stare at the erection pressed against Akaashi’s pajama pants. It embarrasses him a little, but it’s hardly the first time Bokuto has seen Akaashi’s dick, and he pushes the thought away. He smirks back, instead: “I was indecisive between red or white, but in the end I think I’ve chosen the right color.”

“Wh— you’re talking about the _rope_?” Bokuto asks at once, shoulders drooping like Akaashi knew they would. “I see how it is. It’s not like you have a fine specimen of a captain sitting butt naked in your stupidly noisy kitchen chair, or anything. I understand. _Really_ , I do—“

Akaashi licks into his mouth, bending at the waist, and Bokuto’s complaints drown inside their spit as he kisses back. He still tastes like that god-awful soda he chugs after practice, sweet and a little bland. Akaashi pulls back after a beat and feels infinitely satisfied when Bokuto attempts to follow the path of his mouth, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The ropes strain around Bokuto’s torso and Akaashi freezes. Even if he’s studied up on knots and techniques that would make his mother frown, he still stares at the corners of the chair with narrowed eyes, expecting the worst.

It doesn’t come – Bokuto’s chest deflates under the tension, pink strikes of color beneath the red fibers, and Akaashi brings his hand to cup Bokuto’s jaw.

“ _You_ look good too, Bokuto-san.”

And he does. Akaashi doesn’t think he’ll manage to look at his kitchen chair again without remembering Bokuto’s pale skin beneath the red. The pink lines in his skin where the rope digs into. The glitter inside Bokuto’s eyes, expressively wanting as he lets them roam across the expanse of Akaashi’s pajama tented pants. The shift in his jaw when Akaashi leans in again, mouth open and tongue wet.

He’s never gotten the point of kissing – it’s not particularly pleasant, and he’d prefer Bokuto would use his tongue on other places,  but his captain makes nice, soft sounds when Akaashi sucks, or bites, and it’s enough that Akaashi doesn’t mind having to trade spit with Bokuto. He’s always been a needy person, be it asking for assurance or his special spike, and Akaashi knows how to deliver. He likes to deliver, too—though he’d rather not make it too obvious.

“Y-Yeah?” Bokuto asks, parting. Mouth wet and eyes half-lidded, and Akaashi’s hips nearly tug in his direction. “You really think? Really?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi responds, finally getting to his knees.

Bokuto’s chest expands beneath the ropes, an expectant breath that stutters when Akaashi tugs at the red, presses it in the crevice of Bokuto’s thigh. Too close to his dick for him not to squirm, too far for him to feel anything pleasurable. Akaashi smiles at the closest cowboy figure stamped on his captain’s boxers and pops the button off.

Bokuto is whining, now; always too impatient. This is the part where he gets tired of foreplay – the brief seconds after Akaashi begins to delve into it. It’s annoying, most of the times, but not today. Not now, with Bokuto’s limbs artfully arranged and halted, not now with Akaashi’s fingers taking his dick out of his boxers like he’s afraid it’ll break. With Bokuto, levity and carefulness is always needed – he might cry out and start talking dirty if Akaashi jacks him off in a hurry, but if the touches are light and Akaashi is smart—

“Ahh, Aka—Akaashi, please please _please_ ,” Bokuto fires off, with a speed that would put a machine gun to shame. Eyes closed and hips twitching against the ropes, and Akaashi bites the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning. “I wanna come, dude! C’mon, Akaashi, don’t – don’t tease!”

“I’m not,” Akaashi lies, face clean and impassive. Bokuto’s eyes narrow, darkening behind his eyelids, and Akaashi’s stomach twists a bit. “This is an exercise in patience, Bokuto-san. Don’t let me down, please.”

Bokuto’s stomach ripples, then, tightening like it does when he’s laughing. Akaashi leans back and rises onto his feet, searching his desk. He checks the time, then grabs his mechanical pencil and turns towards Bokuto with searching eyes.

He clicks the end and slides the lead inside with his other hand. Slowly enough that Bokuto’s eyes widen and follow the gesture; slowly enough that he tries to think of what the next step might be. Bokuto isn’t lacking in stamina, but he gets bored all too easily, and Akaashi wants this to be longer than … practice? That’s too long, and Bokuto gets bored of it halfway anyway. Class? Everyone knows he sleeps those away. What, then?

“I – I won’t,” Bokuto says, with a petulant pout. Between those two perfect coils of red, his dick twitches. The rope follows the roll of his hips, straining from the inside of his thighs to behind his neck.

Akaashi turns away on his chair, sets his pencil on the desk, and takes a deep, quiet breath.

“I want this to last longer than your detention,” he finally decides, and turns back. The kitchen chair’s hinges scream, then, but Akaashi had been expecting it, and he only sets his chin on his hand. Awards Bokuto with a long, bored look.

“A-Ak—“

“You should have considered your actions a little better, Bokuto-san. Was wrestling the baseball ace worth it?”

“Akaashi,” says Bokuto, who is frowning, “you know how I feel about melonpan.”

“You mean you missed practice for a melonpan,” Akaashi replies coolly.

“Well, it’s not—well, yeah. But so did he,” Bokuto mutters.

Akaashi closes his eyes; pinches his nose, and takes a loud, long breath. Bokuto shifts again, dick still standing at attention, and bites his lip.

“I said I was sorry.” It’s that sulky waver in his voice again. The kid caught with his hand in the baseball captain’s collar by their math teacher, _honestly—_

Akaashi breathes in, and sets his mechanical pencil back on his desk. An exercise in patience, he’d said, and he’d meant it. It will fail if Akaashi doesn’t hold his temper, and Akaashi doesn’t want to disappoint anyone – neither Bokuto, nor himself. He turns to his captain again, and nods his head.

“I take it to mean it won’t happen again, Bokuto-san,” he says, cocking his head very slightly. Bokuto’s eyes find the line of his jaw immediately. Always starved for it, he is, and his teeth worry the left bend of his lower lip. It makes something in Akaashi’s stomach twist and burn, then lower into his dick.

“It won’t,” Bokuto replies, voice hitching a little.

“Good,” Akaashi says, and leans into him again.

A finger curls around a rope and pulls. It shifts against Bokuto’s thigh, hard enough that he goes straight, and Akaashi bends again, knees against the soft fabric of his carpet. Bokuto’s face reddens, but his eyes are focused, piercing even, as they set on Akaashi’s mouth. Akaashi can’t help what to waste of focus it is, when it could be applied to a ball’s trajectory instead – but he can’t also squash the budding pride inside his chest.

“Pay attention, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and his tongue welcomes Bokuto’s dick inside his mouth.

It’s thankful that Bokuto has a nice voice – it can be grating, especially when he is feeling down or unappreciated, but when Akaashi touches him it is never that. Now it is only a mix of breathy relief and groaning that doesn’t know whether it wants to be heard or bitten down. The cords of Bokuto’s neck flex along with the rope, a strain that makes Akaashi congratulate himself on being a pervert.

He doesn’t waste time with that, though. Not now, at least. He kisses Bokuto there, closing his lips around the part he likes, and presses cool hands into the curve of his stomach. It has always been thicker than Akaashi’s, but he still feels an odd sense of marvel every time his fingers can’t quite close around it.

“A-Ak—ahh—“

 That’s a good sign. Akaashi swallows him again, thumbs digging into the space between his hipbones, and the chair groans.

Akaashi pulls back. He wipes his mouth, straightens his back, and sets his hands in his warm lap.

“No – no way, Akaashi – holy _shit_ —“

“Yes way, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says sternly. The effect might be diminished by the way his dick is straining out of his pajama pants, but Akaashi prizes himself in having the best poker face in Fukurōdani, and he manages to keep a level stare in spite of all the blood rushing away from his brain.

Bokuto looks as if he might cry.

Akaashi keeps his hands on his lap, and they do not tremble with the effort of holding them there. They do _not_.

“God, I’m – okay, Akaashi, just, okay?”

Akaashi smiles, languid (and the right amount of cruel), and snakes his hands around Bokuto’s middle again. The pads of his fingers rest into the knot pressed against Bokuto’s spine, then around it, and he tugs on the rope at the same time he licks down Bokuto’s dick.

“That’s so fucked up, man,” Bokuto grits out, toes curling and legs tensing. “That’s – ahh, man, you can be _so_ —“

Akaashi knows. He rewards Bokuto’s perceptiveness with a soft hum that makes every muscle in his stomach go taut, and then takes him in deep. Bokuto’s mouth falls open, eyes going a little crossed, and the rope digs into his arms. Akaashi struggles to find his wrists where they are bound, just a short way above the end of his back, and hums again when the rope holds.

And the chair’s hinges sing again, just as Bokuto curses. Akaashi swallows before leaving, this time, and rests his right arm on Bokuto’s thigh. Adopts a bored expression, leans his chin on his hand, and stares up at him. Bokuto’s breaths are clipped at the ends as he tries to catch them, and it’s one of Akaashi’s favorite sounds.

“This is so unfair,” Bokuto gasps.

“So is missing practice,” Akaashi says. “The team depends on you, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s shoulders hike a bit, his eyes narrowing. They’re both aware this isn’t really about Bokuto’s detention; it is more about Bokuto’s helplessness and Akaashi’s control.

A shiver titters across Akaashi’s spine like even his own body is mocking him. Bokuto’s eyes catch the trembling motion, narrowing further as he leans in as far as the rope allows him to.

“So, what,” he says, sarcasm and doubt pouring out of his mouth, “you’re punishing me, Akaashi?”

 _That’s right_ , is what Akaashi should say. _That’s right, Bokuto-san._ But his tongue is thick and wet inside his mouth as his dick twitches, and only silence fills the room. Akaashi takes the easy way out, pressing another cruel kiss to the side of Bokuto’s dick.

Bokuto behaves for a long time, after that – even as Akaashi pulls and sucks and moans. Even as the groans claw out of his throat, exhausted, even as the taste of his dick goes more and more intense. The ropes dig, and the skin whitens, and Bokuto remains stubbornly still. Akaashi nearly feels disappointed, for some reason, and then realizes that this was his goal all along. _Stupid,_ Akaashi thinks as he withdraws, jaw aching.

He glances up at Bokuto.

“W-Well?” his captain asks, voice gritty and cracked. The grin on his face is lopsided, just a bit, and his cheeks are redder than the ropes looping around his body. They glisten in the dimming sunlight as he moves, a thin sheen of sweat bringing out the glow of near-orgasm in Bokuto’s expression. It is lovely to see; lovelier still to know Akaashi is the cause.

On cue, his thighs tremble, inner muscles wishing for something, some _one_.

“Adequate,” Akaashi replies evenly.

“Ade—!?”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi interrupts, getting onto his feet and then onto Bokuto’s lap. “Where are the condoms?”

The chair squawks at the same time Bokuto does, shoulders tightening and hips driving up into Akaashi’s ass.

“But I still haven’t—“

“The condoms, Bokuto-san.”

“R-Right,” Bokuto manages, looking dizzy, “right, um, bag.”

Akaashi rewards him with a kiss, because for all Bokuto claims to have no preferences he still goes a bit loopy when there’s mouths involved, and then goes off to search Bokuto’s backpack. The pink and white packaging is easy enough to find amidst the smelly practice clothes. Akaashi can’t help but to smile at the fruit pattern, if only because he knows Bokuto can’t see.

“Strawberry-flavored, Bokuto-san?” he asks, returning.

“Ah, uh, yeah, I – shit, I kinda forgot—“

It’s far too late for Akaashi to bother with arguing. Besides, Bokuto likes it better when Akaashi’s mouth is _there_ as opposed to being behind plastic coverings. Akaashi supposes he would like it better raw, too, but there are things he’s not ready to try just yet – and Bokuto seems like the kind of boy to come inside because _it felt way too good, Akaashi, I’m sorry, lemme make it up to you—_

However silly, the thought brings a wet heat to Akaashi’s belly. He takes a deep breath, tucking the condom wrapper between Bokuto’s chest and a coil of rope, and slides out of his pajama pants. The chair groans, low and keen, as Bokuto’s dick twitches and weeps.

“You really do look good, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmurs, hooking fingers on the collar of his sweatshirt and taking it off. When he looks again, there is another drop of pre glistening there.

“Don’t tease, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto replies, half-pouting. He gyrates his hips as best he can, as the ropes don’t allow for much, and nods rudely at Akaashi. “Come on, come on, wanna _go_ already.”

Akaashi ignores him, walking off to his nightstand and grabbing his lotion. Bokuto’s eyes practically sear the flesh off his ass, and Akaashi rolls his eyes.

“Love those boxers, man. Makes me wanna, like, I dunno, take a bite off your butt, or something.” The look on his face suggests Bokuto means it. “I should get you some—“

“Absolutely not.”

“I was gonna say—“

“ _No_ , Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and pops open the lube. The sound attracts Bokuto’s eyes immediately, a Pavlovian reaction that shouldn’t get Akaashi so warm and proud inside.

“Edible undies,” Bokuto trails off, mouth going a little slack as the lotion pools into Akaashi’s open hand. “Hey, hey, are you really gonna—“

“Yes,” and then, because Akaashi is cruel, he steps around Bokuto and murmurs: “but I’ll be over here.”

Bokuto very clearly attempts to break out of his knots, chest puffing forward and chair whining; for a second, the worry comes crawling back even as Akaashi bends over to rest his forehead on Bokuto’s straining shoulder. He rolls down his boxers with his free hand, and then:

“Ah,” Akaashi lets out, half-breath, half-moan, and Bokuto goes very still.

“You’re the worst,” his captain says, sounding as if he really might cry.

“Mm,” is Akaashi’s only reply, this time retrieved from closed lips.

He wonders if Bokuto can feel the press of Akaashi’s brow when it turns, focused and wishing for more, for _better_ , or if the hot wet breath against his shoulder blade bothers him, or if the sound of sliding fingers and squelching lotion are chipping away at his hardly-there composure.

He wonders, but Bokuto is always eager to clarify.

“You’re killing me,” he whines, along with the chair, “you really are, Akaashi, how could you ever do this to me, I’ve never gotten to watch you do it to yourself, Akaashi, you’re a monster—“

“And if I am, Boku— _mm_ —Bokuto-san?”

The moan might be too much, because Bokuto lets his head fall backwards, clear eyes staring at the sterile ceiling. Akaashi opens his mouth and bites down on supple muscle, fingers curling upwards and still lacking the twist of Bokuto’s usual method. He wants, he _wants,_ but there are rules that he himself imposed, and—

“I won’t mind it even if you are a monster, Akaashi.”

_Fuck._

Akaashi grits his teeth and his lotion-covered fingers make an awkward, humiliating sound that bubbles around his bedroom. He hates that, hates the weird setting up time pre-sex, hates that he can’t control that as well as he’d like – but there are more pressing matters now. Such as Bokuto’s dick, and the fact that he’s not riding it at this very moment.

“A-Akaa—“

He presses his open mouth against Bokuto’s and wraps long pale legs around his waist. Ah, he is so warm – the outside of the rope is cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the heat emanating from Bokuto’s flushed skin. Akaashi wraps his arms around his neck, basking in it, fingernails digging into the nape and scalp as he directs Bokuto’s kiss like a driver.

“ _Akaashi_ ,” Bokuto pants, when the kiss fades into a sharp breath. His voice has gotten a little high.

“Yes,” Akaashi replies, black eyes on yellow, and plucks out the stupid strawberry condom from under a shoulder knot. From where he sits, he can see every shift of Bokuto’s throat, bobbing up and down with a wet swallow.

“You, uh, you’ve really—“

“Yes,” he cuts in, and slides the pink rubber over Bokuto’s dick. It pulses in his hands, hotter than the rest of him, and Bokuto heaves a sigh of relief when Akaashi releases it.

“I mean, _really_ —“

“Yes,” and he is filled with a tight moan, eyes closed and hands gripping at the kitchen chair’s back like he’s going to fall out of his room and into the sky. _Fuck_ , Akaashi thinks again, the tears gathering behind his eyelids as the bliss spreads up his spine.

“God,” Bokuto hisses, forehead pressing into Akaashi’s collarbones as the chair squeaks. “Not gonna last long, ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi isn’t either. But he decides losing time verbalizing what is clearly so obvious is the wrong choice – he circles his hips instead, heels digging into the chair’s wooden slab, into where Bokuto’s ass begins. It feels so good, so, _so_ good, and Akaashi grips at Bokuto’s shoulders, angling back until his eyes go a little crossed and Bokuto’s entire body tenses.

Akaashi is too full, too hot. It’s so different, like this! It’s not the press of damp sheets into his skin and Bokuto’s hard, controlled thrusts – it’s not Bokuto’s strong legs wrapped around Akaashi’s waist and his stupid hair flattened by the pillow – it’s not even the rush of being caught or not as they stay behind in the locker rooms because Bokuto can’t keep it in his pants for just one afternoon.

It’s _better_. So Akaashi’s hips tug forward, and Bokuto’s dick twitches inside him as his owner grits his teeth and makes a noise that will fuel Akaashi’s nights for weeks to come. He tightens, legs sliding to the floor and feet finding purchase on the dark-blue rug, and then presses down, until Bokuto thrusts up and moans in a familiar way.

“Huh—holy sh—“ is what he says, face rising to meet Akaashi’s, “I’m g—uh—“

 _Yes, Bokuto-san,_ is what Akaashi should say.

It’s not surprising that they don’t last – Akaashi took the time to wind Bokuto up, and with every minute of orgasm delay his dick was weeping too. He does not, at all, consider the fact that he might have a thing for bondage.

 _Yes, Bokuto-san_ , is what Akaashi should say, if the saliva wasn’t pooling in his mouth, if his stomach wasn’t tightening, if his voice didn’t decide to stop working. If he didn’t come with a muted gasp and grinding, trembling legs. If his orgasm didn’t stripe him of coherent thought and speech for a good twenty seconds.

It is only when he peels himself off Bokuto’s chest that he realizes he came _hard_ – and for much longer than Bokuto, if the grin on his captain’s face is of any indication. Bokuto looks down at his come-spattered chest and then up at Akaashi, still catching his breath. And then _smirks_ , mouth opening to say words that Akaashi likely doesn’t want to hear.

“Anyway,” Akaashi says, averting his eyes to the floor like that will magically erase the blush off his face, “that’s that.”

“Pffffttt,” Bokuto guffaws, “Akaashi, you’re such a—“

“Perhaps I should’ve gagged you as well,” Akaashi cuts in dryly, gingerly removing himself off Bokuto’s lap.

The laughter dies inside Bokuto’s throat, murdered by the wide-eyed flushed expression that replaces it. Akaashi’s chest grows tight and uncomfortably full, a paradox that he is half-scared to think about. He stares down at Bokuto’s reddening face, and feels a swirl of warm things that he would deny if asked.

And then he smirks.


End file.
